The Complete Demonwar Saga 2-Book Collection. Raymond E. Feist
said returning the smile.
As he sat at the table, her smile turned to a frown. ‘Very well, when are you two leaving?’
Brandos shook his head and smiled ruefully. She could read him like a proclamation posted on a wall in the city square. ‘Soon, I think. Amirantha is very troubled by what happened up in Lanada.’
She only nodded. One of her talents was ignoring how her husband and his foster father made their living, by summoning demons in distant lands, then banishing them for a fee. They did occasionally do real work, dangerous work, for those willing to pay, but those were rare callings, the rest of the time the pair behaved little better than a pair of confidence tricksters.
Still, there were some matters that she and Brandos were willing to argue about, and some things best left unspoken; it was why their marriage had lasted for twenty-three years.
‘Is there any point to me asking why?’ she said coolly. ‘It’s not like it was when the children lived here.’ She stopped and looked at her husband accusingly. ‘Bethan is at sea, sailing who knows where. Meg lives with her husband up in Khaipur.’
‘Donal is down in the village with the grandchildren. You can walk down to visit them any time you wish,’ he quickly countered. He knew where this was heading.
‘And his wife just loves having me around,’ she said.
‘What is it about two women under the same roof?’ asked Brandos rhetorically.
‘She’ll come around when the new baby is born and she needs another pair of hands, but until then, she sees me as an intruder.’ He was about to speak, but she cut him off, her vivid blue eyes fixed on him as she absently pushed back a strand of grey hair trying to escape from under her head covering. ‘It’s lonely here, Brandos, with you gone for weeks, even months at a time …’ She let out a theatrical sigh. ‘When you returned early, I can’t tell you how happy that made me.
‘When are you going to stop all this travelling? I know how wealthy we are. You don’t need to do this any more.’
‘That would be true if Amirantha wasn’t always worried about what he might have to spend on one of his … devices, or an old libram of spells, or whatever else takes his fancy,’ countered her husband. ‘Besides, it is his wealth, isn’t it?’
‘Yours, too,’ she shot back. ‘It’s not as if you sat around doing nothing.’
He knew there was no avoiding the subject. ‘Look, most times I would argue with him on your behalf, I would agree with what you’re saying: We just got home, we’ve been gone over a month; but this time, well, we have to go.’
Samantha put her hands on her hips and said, ‘Why?’ Her tone was defiant and bordering on anger, and Brandos knew he must tell her.
‘It’s Amirantha’s brother.’
She looked stunned. She blinked and then asked, ‘Belasco?’
He nodded once.
She said, ‘I’ll prepare a travel bag. Enough food to take you to the city. You can buy the rest as you go.’
Her sudden change in mood and manner were entirely understandable. Over the many years they had been together, she had listened to the same stories as Brandos while Amirantha chatted over supper. She knew that Belasco was a magician of mighty arts, easily Amirantha’s equal, and that he had been trying to kill Amirantha since before Brandos or Samantha had been alive.
SANDREENA SAT MOTIONLESS.
She focused her mind on the seemingly impossible task of thinking of nothing. For seven years she had practised this ritual whenever conditions permitted, yet she never reached the total vacancy of thought that was the goal of the Sha’tar Ritual.
Despite her eyes being closed, she could describe the room around her in precise detail. And that was her problem. Her mind wanted to be active, not floating blankly. She resisted the urge to sigh.
On her best days in the Temple, she found something close to nothingness, or at least when the ritual ended she had no memory of thinking about anything and felt very relaxed. But she was still not entirely convinced that having no memory and possessing no thought were the same. Her concern always caused Father-Bishop Creegan some amusement, and the fact she was moved by the thought was another reminder that today she was far from attaining a floating consciousness.
She was still aware of every single object in the room around her. Without opening her eyes, she could recount every detail; her ability to recall it all without flaw was a natural skill honed and refined since joining the Shield of the Weak. Her vows required her to protect those unable to protect themselves. Often, there was little time to ascertain the justice of a claim, or the right and wrong of a dispute, so she relied upon making quick judgment in deciding where and how to intervene. Attention to detail often gave her an advantage in not making things worse, even if she couldn’t make them better.
The smell of the wooden walls and floor, rich with age, and the faint pungency of oils used daily to replenish them, tantalized her, recalling memories of other visits to this and other temples. She could hear the faint hissing of water on hot rocks as the acolytes moved almost silently through the room, bringing in hot rocks from a furnace outside. They managed to carry a large iron basket full of glowing basalt and place it quietly on the floor, then they ladled water over its surface, a sprinkling that caused a silent steam to rise. She remembered her days as an acolyte spent concentrating on moving through a room much like this one without disturbing the monks, priests, and occasionally a knight like herself. It had been her first step on the path towards serving the Goddess. As many as a dozen men and women would sit silently, their clothing folded neatly on benches along the rear wall, and it had been her job to ensure the tranquillity of the room. At the time she had wondered whether a more difficult task existed; now she knew that the acolytes had the simpler role, and those seeking a floating consciousness the more rigorous challenge.
She felt perspiration drip down her naked back, almost but not quite enough of an itch to make her wish to scratch. She willed her mind away from the sensations of her flesh. Sitting with crossed legs, eyes closed, and her hands resting palms up on her knees, nothing was supposed to distract her; yet that drip of perspiration felt almost as if she were being touched. Her annoyance at being distracted by it began a cycle she knew well. Soon she would be as far removed from a floating consciousness as she would be during combat or enjoying a lover. She found a spark of irony in that thought, since in both those cases, she was probably closer. Other parts of her mind seemed to predominate when fighting or loving, and the ever-questioning, ever-critical part that made her difficult for most people to be with, detached.
Like all members of her order, Sandreena was always welcome at any temple of Dala, the Patron Goddess of the Order of the Shield of the Weak. Being a member of an errant order, she wandered where the Goddess directed her, often providing the only authority or protection for small villages, tiny caravans, or isolated abbeys. She adjudicated disputes and dispensed equity by reason, but she was well equipped to do so by force of arms if necessary.
The drop of perspiration had now reached the top of her tailbone, and as it pooled there for a moment, she focused her mind and dived into it, seeking to float within it. She took slow, deep breaths, enjoying the sybaritic pleasure she took from the hot steam, the silence, and the total absence of threat. She found her quiet place within that drop of moisture on her spine. A light breeze made the brass wind chimes outside ring softly, heightening the calming experience. Then Sandreena caught a hint of something unwelcome, a musky male odour so slight it was almost unnoticeable.
She knew the ritual was over. This was not the first time her presence in the sanctuary had brought unwelcome results. There were